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Loyal Servant? My Arse.


by Tabatha Stirling


It's bloody ridiculous, to be quite frank.  I am a Peer of the Sodding Realm. And it takes one slip, just one tiny, treasonous whisper and I'm dragged off the Tower faster than a doxy with tertiary syphilis losing her mind.  I'm a Buckingham, FFS.  We are known for our treason.  Hell, we are celebrated for it.  Why bother to befriend me and bring me into the inner circle just to be mildly bloody offended when I let you down.  IT'S IN MY GENETIC MAKEUP.  You are so fucking paranoid, Hal.  Who doesn't read horoscopes about your imminent demise?  We all do it.  There's a sodding betting circle with your death by comet as odds on favourite.  

I know it is jealousy.  You struggle to get it up with your suppurating sores and anal fistulas.  But don't blame me, you postulating peacock.  Stop stuffing yourself with swan's tongues and jellied whatnots and get a bloody life.  Take a bit of exercise.  Fucking yourself doesn't count.  Christ, I'm so tired of this hypocrisy.  It's one rule for you; you bloated prick, and one rule for the rest of us.  You know what?  I'm looking forward to my execution. I'm going to stick my arms out and groan and look like a fucking ghoul and if I catch my head before I die I'm going to fucking throw it at you.  Take that and shove it up your lard-packed arse, Henry sodding Tudor.

Signed with the deepest respect and loyalty (Ha! Ha!)

Your servant (In your fucking dreams)

Edward Stafford, 3rd Duke of Buckingham (at least I can get it up, you limp-dicked twat)

16th May 1521, The Tower of Sodding London (Oooh, I'm so scared. NOT)

 

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